


Midnight

by jukain



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amputation, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Changing Tenses, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Multi, Other, POV Second Person, Primal Nonsense, Self-Harm, Slice of Life, Spoilers, Time Travel Fix-It, hildibrand quest!, this got very dark very fast, wol dies instead at the vault au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2019-11-04 14:39:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 13,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17900027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukain/pseuds/jukain
Summary: a collection of my miscellaneous short works from tumblr





	1. beasts

“i am unburdened by allegiance,” you say to asahi over the rustling of wind through trees, “and association with any outstanding parties.”

he looks at you pleasantly while you avoid his gaze. it’s a quiet evening. there is a chill in the air you only barely feel.

“regardless of whether i am used as a spearhead, or if i make the choice to fight on my own, i am still inevitably a slayer. i take down those who would commit undue harm upon others, and i do so without hesitation, and without question.” 

out of the corner of your eye, you see him tilt his head a little as though puzzled. imploring you to continue.

you are not like alphinaud or hien. not even like yugiri nor alisaie.

“you may truly desire peace, and you may be willing to play the part of the diplomat only out to protect others, but in the end it all suits your desires. earning reluctant trust and allies is convenient for your endgame, but it is not that which you seek. you will not be able to fool me.”

he makes a small, confused sound, gesturing with both hands palm-up. feigned worry and desperation.

“i’m afraid i don’t understand what you’re referring to,” he says lightly, placatingly. you look at him then. his expression speaks concern that is too easy to read, too open. “i understand if you’re stressed due to recent events, taking part in such massive fights as you were. it may do you well to rest for a time, and i would not wish to cause unnecessary worry to your friends.”

your eyes lock. he holds himself carefully, not directing his body towards you, making himself appear less threatening. he is both clever and patient, as any good predator would be.

“a word of advice.” your voice slips out low from between your teeth. the breeze rustles your hair and clothes. asahi watches you with sharp eyes and does not say a word when you pause briefly to consider.

“monsters know how to find other monsters.” you speak, tasting the sea salt in the air. the cold of night bites at your skin. “after all, it is only us who knows what to look for, as we see it in ourselves.” 

you tilt your head ever so slightly in his direction. he is silent. the glare of the moon casts a harsh shadow beneath you both.

“there is no light in your eyes.”


	2. parallels

“you should feel honored, dear brother,” yotsuyu rasps from her place on the floor, one blood-splattered hand raised. her trembling fingers curl into a loose fist. asahi continues to bleed. “i saved the last of my strength just… for you.”

her arm drops, limp, last puppet strings cut. asahi crumples to the ground in a heap and hisses pained, enraged noises through the blood clogging his throat. he dies not soon after while you watch on, silent.

_“how… how can this be? a millennium of prayer and the eye’s power combined– and yet you still stand?” the archbishop rasps from his place on the floor, barely able to hold himself up. he slowly looks up to you with fear and disbelief._

_you should feel honored, you want to say. i fought my way here all the way from the vault. i broke through obstacle after obstacle just to be able to meet you here. i saved the last of my strength, just for you… just so i could kill you._

_he cries out a question you don’t have the answer to, one that you aren’t prepared to face, and perishes in a burst of aether. the silence is cold._


	3. losses

the crunch of estinien’s jaw beneath your fist does nothing to soothe the anger bubbling in your chest. you knew it wouldn’t, but you were long past the point of caring.

“what in gods–” he hisses out as he recoils, glaring over in your direction, but his mouth falls open wordlessly when his gaze meets yours. his face goes slack. you can only imagine what he sees there, in you.

“they’re gone. the scions. my _friends._ they’re _gone_!” you shout at him, your grief steadily bleeding through the cracks. suppressed tears blur your sight. “ _alphinaud_ is gone!”

his expression shifts into open shock and horror. you choke out an enraged cry, clawing your fingers through your hair.

“i hope you enjoyed your soul searching journey,” you tell him, fully aware how cruel it is you’re being. but you’re hurting. you’ve _been_ hurting. you lost and lost and lost and only _now_ does he– “i hope you found whatever you were looking for. because our enemies are at our throats, i am left only with alphinaud’s grieving sister, and i would not dare to let her suffer anymore of this–!”

he stands there staring, silent and uncertain, and you are lost.

“and i am a weapon once again. to fight wars i have little place in and watch everything i love fall to pieces besides. to watch my friends fall at my feet while i can do naught to save them. again, and again, and again.”

determined numbness settles beneath your ribs. your hands fall to your sides. you’ve wasted enough time here.

“fight or leave. it is not my concern.” you whisper harshly when estinien takes a wary step towards you. you hate how much you want to meet him in the middle, but his fortune and curse by simply being your friend makes him too great a risk for you to indulge in. you will let him go, as he did for all of you. he should have been there. alphinaud was so–

alphinaud is gone.

“give aymeric my regards should you choose to deign him with your presence. the parlay with the emperor rattled him.” you spin around on your heel and leave, ignoring the dragoon calling your name and his hurried footsteps.

you leap from the rooftop’s edge and disappear into darkness.


	4. regrets

_gone, gone, gone, gone,_

your fist slams against the barrier in a steady rhythm

 _“please, don’t you dare leave me alone,”_ she had said to you in a broken voice. words that you began to think on loop after so many losses, but never spoken aloud. you were not afforded the luxury of empty sentiments.

a web of cracks traces across the surface. _gone, gone,_

you’re never entirely there when you take down imperial soldiers, not anymore. the battlefield is as mindless and reflex to you as breathing. you don’t think. you only kill and move to the next, and the next.

your head throbs and you taste blood in your throat. the sounds of creaking punctuates your ceaseless bombardment. _alone_

you’re filled with grief and hatred and have no more tears left to cry. the static noise shrieks in your ears, grows with every shard falling loose. it doesn’t cause you pain anymore, to be physically hurt, but you wouldn’t care even if it did. it would be release compared to the utter hopelessness, despair, turmoil, drowning you in its depths but nevertheless forcing you to stay alive. to stay and fight out of guilt. _obligation_.

you scream in fury and smash through the barrier with one final blow. razor sharp fragments explode around you and disintegrate into the expanse of darkness and you surge forward and _fall._

“i am sorry.” you had told his memorial on your final visit. the daily offering of nymeia lilies had long since been covered by a layer of frost. “i can no longer be the person you considered me to be. the person you loved so.” the air was too still, too quiet. prelude to a storm. “i do not deserve your kindness.”

you stared up into the clouds blanketing a deep gray sky.

“i had hoped that, once i could finally rest, i would get see you again but–”

_not again, please, not again. the path you’ve chosen is paved with the dead. no, you can’t die like this, i won’t let you. walk it with your eyes open, or not at all. forgive me, i could not bear the thought of…_

_… what do you want for yourself?_

“halone would not welcome a monster into her halls.”


	5. apexes

_were i to become a primal, would you be able to kill me?_

you never actually ask any of your friends, scions or no, this particular question. it’s one of the things you keep safely tucked away beside all the memories of your favorite flowers frost-bitten at your beloved’s grave, and the look in the archbishop’s eyes when he had perished at your feet. he asked you something similar, as it were, and it was only by fortune that your traveling companion, estinien, hadn’t been there to hear it. of all people, it was he who would be able to understand what it meant to ask someone not who, but _what_ , they were, and he would in all likelihood have an opinion... if he didn’t already. you would have to seek him out later and find out, mayhap.

you playfully ruffle alphinaud’s hair and he squawks in protest, halfheartedly batting away your hands in embarrassment. his moonstone carbuncle chirrups up at you and bounces around its master with unbridled glee, in no way feeling your stare as you consider how swiftly you would dissolve the creature into aether, absorb it, should you choose to do so.

_if i became the very monster i’ve spent so long killing-- if i needed to be slain like any other, would you be able to cope?_

you couldn’t burden him, nor alisaie, with these thoughts of yours. your already fragmented heart may very well give up at the notion of their mutual grief to your dilemma. alphinaud in particular had been very close to you for a great deal of time, and the bond you shared was unlike those which you held with other scions. the two of you, as well as tataru, had lived through the dragonsong war together. lived through your greatest trauma.

_would you hesitate? would you try to stop me?_

the smiles of the alliance leaders towards you have become less bursting with relief and gratitude, as strained and tired. you don’t doubt they wish they could give back even a fraction of what you’ve sacrificed for their causes, but they can’t. they know they can’t. their debt is bottomless and eternal and it’s only through battle upon battle that you realize you will never have the option to simply not participate in their wars. they need you to protect them, because there's no way they’ll be able to do so themselves... and you were still so selfless, so compassionate, so desperate to save no matter the cost to yourself. long ago you had pushed your resentment aside without ever having entertained it, and there it festered in split voices sounding too much like yours, taking root and biding their time.

the alliance itself has balanced impressively well, and continues to grow quickly in power, united under a single banner, from west to east. they’re well on their way to solving their own problems. ~~you cannot continue to exist like this~~ you’ve lost track of the days you spend campaigning against the most recently summoned primal, in endless loops, by their worshiping beast tribe. by the zealous, fearful public which only becomes more so as you slay their god once again. ~~the aether is thinning and you can feel it too deeply, as you shouldn’t~~ time passes in a haze, your feet moving steadily one after the other with no destination in mind. ~~you no longer relish the taste of battle as you do the energy the primals release upon their demise~~ you journey across what may as well be the entire nation on foot before word ever reaches your ears that you had been considered a missing person. actually, you never find out at all, not until long after the fact. from whom would you hear of such news? you crushed your linkpearl between your fingers a fortnight ago but you don’t remember doing so. ~~you don’t remember the traveling, the fighting, anything between~~

_what was i fighting for, again?_

it’s comfortably warm in dravania, where estinien finds you and you stumble across him in your stupor. he watches you at a distance, both literally in yalms and figuratively from the shielded expression he wears. the new armor is lovely on him, you think. it’s rich with ancient power like the great wyrms themselves, and its presence nearly beckons you.

“estinien!” you call in surprise, fully intending to maintain your false, standard pleasantness, but finding your voice to be weak and haggard. an awful, shuddering sound wholly unlike you. his eyes widen in alarm and he moves a thoughtless step forward in your direction. you suddenly can’t see very clearly, estinien and the road and everything else spinning so dizzyingly as they are, and it’s difficult to breathe through the barbs in your throat. your ears are ringing, ringing, the sharp noise flooding you with a feeling of nausea so potent you nearly break apart right there. “estinien, please--”

he would try to save you, you realize with an entirely new sense of fear as the dragoon in question lunges and makes the fatal mistake of not immediately spearing you through. just as you had risked everything to save him, he would try to return the favor in kind. he would do everything he could to save you, no matter the chances of success.

but, even so, you hoped--

_noise noise noise screaming your own screaming hands clutching your shoulders_

you hoped he would--

_compression ignition combustion the aether is fire and burns you burns all around you burns him_

please--

“ _do not leave us!”_

please let me go

  
  


  
  


awareness is slow to return. you can hear sobbing from close by, and it’s painful and familiar and you decide immediately that you’re not at all fond of the sound.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” alphinaud is crying, which certainly answers that question. you look to him through whatever fog obscures your thought process and makes paying attention a task in itself. it takes him only a fraction of a second to notice you move and then there he is, wrapping his shaking arms around you and holding you tight. his wails increase in earnest, but in relief instead of despair.

you lack the strength to soothe him either way, and you're also not entirely sure you aren't lost in some manner of very realistic dream, so instead you glance ahead and find estinien standing nearby with his arms crossed. he is occupied keeping vigil on the both of you, it seems. he looks even more tired than normal, but there’s softness in his eyes, and really, he looks better than he did that time when you prayed he would kill you. we couldn't all be the victors, at any rate.

your mouth falls open with a soundless inquiry, at which estinien responds with... a particular noise bordering-on-grunt at. he reaches to his side and unhooks something glimmering from his belt, offering it up for you to view. a crystal? no, it's the same as before, when--

“'twas not only i to seek you, when you disappeared,” estinien explains coolly, looking down at the white auracite as though it had offended him personally with its incessant glowing. or maybe that was his default state of expression. you hadn't seen him in a good deal of time and you also had only seen his face sans helm about once total. “'tis fortunate the scions have such... unique resources at their disposal, and members so fervent in their cause.” he smiles a little at you, crookedly but so honestly, and you decide that you very much enjoy this new and less angry estinien, even if he chose to disregard your wishes and save you. what a fun flip of perspective this was proving to be.

alphinaud is doing his best to pull himself together, detaching himself from your person and quickly scrubbing the mess of tears from his face.

“we-- i didn’t-- i didn’t know if it would work,” he croaks out, “but when y’shtola started to notice the aether, or, _your_ aether-- and with krile's exploration of eureka and its resources, and how the ascians were slain, and the primals-- when she first thought--”

“calm yourself, boy.”

“yes! yes of course, i’m sorry.” he inhales deeply, unevenly, and looks at you with such raw emotion and pain that you would have preferred estinien run you through with his lance right then and there, with the audience. alphinaud had gotten so much better at keeping himself in one piece in the face of loss, had become so skilled at the logistics of diplomacy, and yet you managed to do this to him. you didn’t deserve to live for such a travesty, if becoming a primal wasn't contender enough.

“i will... ask y’shtola to go over the details with you later,” alphinaud says with a wobbly smile, eyes bright. you didn’t deserve this child. “the important part is that it worked, and you’re... you're alright. you're alright, yes?”

how could you possibly say no, with him looking at you with such fragile hope leaking out from the cracks of his anguish. so you decide you're better of living for the time being, and nod as much as your body will allow. he beams in lieu of a reply and a warmth as brittle as butterfly wings settles in your chest. soothes the misery of your situation and actions, if only slightly.

the following silence is peaceful and incredibly welcome. your head is at last blissfully quiet and you're overwhelmingly proud of your displaced group of fools. what would you do without them? besides die.

“do care to leave a note, if at any point you once more desire a leisurely walk across the countryside. 'twas more time spent pacifying the boy than bringing you back to your senses.”

“ _estinien!_ ”

 


	6. cavaliers

lucia’s weapon is drawn from her position beside your desk, but you’ve not the strength to move in kind. not with your warrior looking at you with such open contempt.

“what troubles you so, my friend?” you try in a steady, low voice. you hear lucia’s armor scrape together. heat flashes in the warrior’s eyes and your stomach bottoms out, a cold sweat coming over you.

“the warrior of light may consider you a friend, aymeric, but rest assured i do not share the sentiment.” it is their voice, their exact manner of speech, their accent, their face. memories of nidhogg staring you down with your dearest friend’s eyes needle at your subconscious, and you feel sick.

you force a deep inhale to calm yourself. “then to whom, pray tell, do i have the pleasure of speaking?” you ask instead, already calculating possible methods to bar the warrior of light from leaving your office. lucia is positioned to flank them and you try to pretend she would stand a chance. you would stand a chance.

the warrior grins at you with maddening, spiteful glee. their arms cross.

“oh, make no mistake that you’ve correctly assumed my identity, but i did briefly borrow the name of a fallen knight to masquerade as _your warrior’s_ mentor... at least, for the time that they did not accept who i truly was.” you incline your head at them slightly, and they continue: “they sought a guide to deliver them safely from darkness. they wanted someone who knew them as thoroughly as they did, to reforge their broken heart in the fire of their hatred and use that power to continue the fight... continue to play _hero_.”

your head is spinning. knights, in the loosest sense, who had practiced in the dark arts, who had strayed from halone’s grace and delivered vengeance to whomever they found deserving. vigilantes at best and murderers at worst; not caring for the law or who stood in the way of their justice. 

the death of an accused dark knight after losing his trial by combat, already so injured, who didn’t stand a chance against the temple knights from the start and whose body was dumped where no one would make a fuss of his presence. his name was--

“call me fray, if you wish. i’ve no reservations.” they acknowledge lucia with an unreadable expression. “i only come to you now out of respect for my charge, so you'll understand the reason of our absence and not go looking for us.”

“your _charge_? you mean the warrior of light?” are they the same person or separate? how was the deceased knight connected to all of this? 

... just how much had you missed, in your continued ignorance?

“your _weapon of light_ ,” fray answers flatly, returning their attention to you with a glare. “i care for them and naught else in this world. i would see them safe where you lot would only seek to _use_ them to further your gain and fight in your squabbles. if they do not desire true freedom, this is as much as i can do for us.”

“where are they?” the question breaks loose before you can stop it. lucia’s steadfast leer flicks sharply over to you. “if i am to believe even _a word_ of what you’ve contrived, then what's happened to--”

“they couldn’t stand this charade anymore, and gave me the reins.”

the sensation of a blade lancing through your chest. you can only stand there, shocked deadly silent and your eyes wide and burning. fray cocks their head to the side and fixes you with an appraising look.

“that's all you need to know. what you decide to do from this point forward is no longer a concern of mine. you will not see us again.”

every instinct is screaming at you to stop them. to rush forward and grab them by their gauntlets and haul them back. to make them explain. make them stay.

you do none of these things and spare lucia a small nod. her features soften in resignation, concern, but she obediently withdraws. 

fray says nothing, showing zero hesitation, as they turn and leave the room. their footsteps disappear and make their exit all the more final.

your hands tremble at your sides and it’s hard to breathe. lucia’s voice is barely registering. you think she guides you back into your chair at some point, but all you can see is the way your friend, your warrior, regarded you with such hostility-- such _hatred_ \--

you’re drowning in the memory of the darkness so deep, deep in their eyes, and only react with an upward glance on reflex when estinien rushes into the room bearing with him keen distress mirroring precisely to your own.


	7. martyrs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oof

this is your fault. this is _all your fault.  
_

lord haurchefant doesn’t make it in time to be the warrior’s shield. they don’t have enough time to react to his cry of warning, much less respond to the oncoming attack.

you’re doubled over in pain, yalms away, but the adrenaline and horror coursing through your systems drives you to lurch forward, your torture-inflicted injuries be damned.

it all takes precious few seconds. the two sprinting off after your father– the warrior paces ahead due to the time of your arrival– to the unholy light spearing them through the back. lord haurchefant violently throwing his sword and shield aside.

you nearly stumble from your wounds shrieking protest at your aggravated movements, but you do not falter. you reach the two and drop painfully to your knees. lord haurchefant is cradling the warrior to his chest, blood splattering their armor and the ground and spreading in a thin pool against your robes.

you look at the warrior. their eyes are wide from shock and flicker desperately from side to side. you look to the lord knight, currently in a state of fear and despair you cannot put to words. you look up at your father. he spares you hardly a glance and then leaves in his airship. he _leaves._

it was only meant to be a distraction. you had miscalculated. you had underestimated–

this is–

you–

“lord commander.”

lucia’s voice is rough, but gentle, when she approaches you from the side. you’re holding the warrior of light’s hand between yours, your head bowed. you stare down at the blood streaming through the cracks in the stone walkway and whisper denial over and over to yourself. a hand finds your shoulder and presses.

the archbishop and heaven’s ward have left to an unknown destination. the warrior of light had cut clear through the vault to enable the others to free you. they lead the charge against your fight. for you. for ishgard. they saved your nation and killed nidhogg himself and ended the millennia-long war and you owed them _so much_ for their efforts and for their sacrifices and

and–

you don’t attempt to rise, not while your grief is strangling the breath from your lungs. not with the scrapes of plate armor barely penetrating the deafening silence as your dear friends and comrades approach, themselves completely quiet.

they understand what you have just lost.

you don’t want to let go of their hand.

you don’t want to accept it. you don’t want to let go.

lord haurchefant’s breath hitches and you allow yourself to drown in the depths of your anguish, if only for this moment. you lack the strength, the courage the warrior possessed tenfold, to stand and be the leader they need in the face of your greatest failure.


	8. new game+

some call you a “prophet,” others a “harbinger.” the semantics matter little. they will respect you and fear you and there is naught you can do about that fact, just like before.

you share your precious knowledge and pull the strings where necessary, but only ever directly intervene when there is no other choice. they know scarce of the true power you’ve collected over an impossible amount of time, but the demonstrations to a living audience have kept them placated.

you do not allow them to find you, to reach you, to touch you or talk to you or ask. you are present when you are, and to the void otherwise. eventually they stopped trying to track you down, for what it was worth, but not for lack of effort.

so the stories unfolded as they tend to, local rumors and gossip turned tale and myth. they know only as much as you allow, and you are content to listen to the gaps you’ve left be filled by details of creativity and paranoia. it assists in keeping you too dangerous to approach.

this lifestyle may be lonely but it is also blissfully quiet. you're an enigma over a figurehead and do as you please for the best possible outcome. you’d settle for nothing less, with no moral quandaries closing in at every angle for you to painfully weigh or deliberate. it’s refreshingly freeing, and you wonder where you could have been had you been of mind to liberate yourself sooner.

today, you are in ishgard. you had been there for a fair while as a matter of fact, distantly shadowing the comings and goings of knights and dragons and the like. you watch them act out the same war story, same drama, same struggle over an eternal punishment. admittedly, you also dabble more frequently than before, but you know exactly why you do. they don’t, however, and seeing the queer looks flash across their faces when they spot you in a crowd is... amusing.

the lords spend a good deal of time attempting to hunt you down after the first handful of sightings. you idle around the brume in weathered, dirty clothes, and kick loose rocks to and fro in plain sight. the temple knights pass none the wiser and scan the perimeter for a faceless ghost.

you keep a close eye on the Warrior. they are naive and do not understand, and you never _want_ them to. events unfold like the falling of cards with pinpoint accuracy, Foundation is burning and under siege and rioting, and it is only then--

  
  


you slide into the threshold of the fortemps’ manor doors with ease, blocking aymeric in his hasty exit. he physically recoils from shock at your appearance, recognition and alarm blazing behind the righteous fury still evident in his gaze. the occupants of the room bristle and draw their arms with impressively quick timing. you stand there, fully dressed down in a wonderfully covering traveler's outfit, and cross your arms. aymeric stands a little straighter and stares you down.

“naivety does not suit you, lord commander.” you say, the sound of your voice clearly adding fuel to the tension. you hope you don’t sound _too_ similar to their bringer of light. “going off on your own to confront a madman? have you not an onze of sense left in you, after all these revelations?”

the politician in him momentarily rears his head and you smile pleasantly beneath the distortion of your mask. it was good to see him at his best again.

“‘ _harbinger_.’ shall i assume you’re already aware of the current events? to what honor do i owe this _particular_ appearance, then, so conveniently soon after my city was set ablaze?”

“temper, aymeric,” you scold lightly. “one does not make good decisions while angry. much like scurrying off to catastrophe at the hands of monsters pretending to be gods.” you watch him shudder with an enraged inhale, possibly to retort, but you deny him the chance. “you are a _fool_ if you think you’ll be well off to confront the archbishop as is. he cares not for reality, for the future, or for _you_.”

his shoulders sink ever so slightly as he is caught off guard, and you dig in your talons before he can retaliate. none other in the room hold the sheer weight of your attention and you do not ease that pressure.

“you waltz into the vault, and then what? on what grounds does he, nay, the _entire heaven’s ward_ have to listen to your pleas? in what star, what self-serving fantasy of yours, do you _honestly_ believe you will be able to settle a thousand years’ delusion with honeyed words?” you move a heavy step forward with intent, and are satisfied at the amount of weapons readied in your direction. it’s more fun for them to believe you a threat. admitting the truth would only grant you more grief-stricken stares and empty platitudes, and you’ve long since found those to be as hollow as your heart.

“if i do _nothing_ , ishgard will divide and _fall_. my people cannot survive like this.” aymeric nearly snarls at you, leaning forward. “unless you intend to provide a viable solution or grace upon me some _prophetic insight_ , i will not be stopped from trying my damnedest to do what’s right for the sake of everyone here.”

an exhale. you look to the Warrior and they grimace and clutch their head, alarming most everyone save for estinien and lucia, neither of whom taking their eyes from you. you hope their hero Echos with precision.

“one person is easy enough to get rid of,” you reply smoothly. “and even if he does not kill you, he won’t allow you to be heard or seen. and then what? of course, rescue will come. it will be a grand spectacle, surely, watching the city rallying their bravest and most vengeful from all creeds for one final assault on the corrupt, religious cornerstone of your society. hearts will be ignited by passion, by the taste of _revolution_. the prospect of change and reconstruction after all this tragedy is quite appealing, is it not?” your arms lift and gesture out at your sides.

the Warrior comes to and gasps unevenly, choking soundlessly on the horror lodged in their throat. their face loses its color, their voice catching, from the harrowing experience into your subconscious. the others take keen notice as they break apart on the spot, dissolving into uncharacteristic sobs. aymeric himself takes notice with a sharp look over his shoulder, then back at you, appearing fully vulnerable at last.

“of those currently in this room,” you announce coolly to the sounds of the Warrior openly wailing. their knees buckle and haurchefant only barely catches them when they collapse. alphinaud breaks from estinien’s side to kneel in front of them, hands reaching out, unsurely. “one of you will not make it back alive from the vault. and aymeric? it will not be you.”

it isn’t fun anymore, seeing the grief, the utterly _shattered_ look on his face. on any of their faces. it’s significantly less fun than that watching your younger self grieving over your loss, feeling the same as you did then.

but even so... they have hope for a kinder fate. that is the difference, and that is why you are here causing them this pain.

“so this is the question i pose to you, lord commander: who here are you prepared to sacrifice, to parlay with a madman thinking himself a god?”

 


	9. blue

“have you been eating plums?” alisaie blurts out of seemingly nowhere, staring at you with great scrutiny and a crease in her brows.

“no?” you offer hesitantly, which only causes her eyes to narrow in suspicion. you risk a glance over at alphinaud, sitting near perfectly in between the two of you at your table, in a silent plea for assistance, but he appears equally as puzzled as you are.

“your mouth is very blue,” alisaie says, sitting back in her chair and loosely crossing her arms. “it reminds me of when my brother and i would eat shaved ice with entirely too much syrup. moreso in his case.”

alphinaud, to his credit, merely shrugs and gives a small nod in assent.

“ah, no, it’s just an auri trait,” you explain, “specifically with the raen peoples. the inside of our mouths have a blue tinge, mostly our tongues.” you stick out said tongue at the teenager to demonstrate and are mildly amused at the way her eyebrows sharply raise.

“not unlike some lizards, then?” she asks, and you offer a shaky handy gesture as a reply while alphinaud sputters in second-hand offense at the association. such a diplomat, he is.

“i believe it’s rather _rude_ , dear sister, to compare an entire race to _animals_ ,” alphinaud warns, clearly on your behalf. alisaie lifts her hands in a placating motion.

“that’s very understandable, and i do apologize. that was merely the first thing i thought of, besides the shaved ice.”

you smile at her to ease any worries.

you _then_ consider sharing how the ishgardians bore a deep history in mistaking au ra for dragonkind, leading to mass amounts of slaughter of the latter, but decide that’s definitely not a topic for casual discussion with two schoolkids. alphinaud had been present for the many slurs directed your way, and the odds were solid that he would fly into a rage at any reminder.

“the xaela have black sclera,” you elect to say instead, earning you both their attentions. “a physical feature exclusive to them, blue mouths being only raen in nature.”

“huh.” alisaie tilts her head back and watches the ceiling thoughtfully. she doesn’t have anything to add to that, as it were, so you look back to your drink and the layer of water sitting grossly on top where the cubes of ice had melted. unacceptable.

“if you were to eat something that dyes your mouth red, would it make purple?”

“ _alisaie_!”


	10. battle litany

“we should fight.”

estinien doesn’t even glance in your direction. he’s busy leaning against a tree like a dramatic, broody hero in a play you wouldn’t watch. he has the look honed to a _perfect edge_.

“i think i preferred it when you never spoke.” he mutters dryly, but not unkindly, which either way is a refreshing change to the deafening silence and _perpetual waiting._

alphinaud had _assured_ you they’d only be gone briefly, just long enough to refresh your meager supplies. maybe get an additional bag, or some sort of knapsack, since you’ve been collecting virtually every interesting plant you’ve come across through dravania. ysayle and him were easily the two more responsible members of your mismatched troupe, and infinitely better at speaking with others and making rational decisions, twelve help you.

… they really shouldn’t have left you to your own devices.

“it’ll be fun. it won’t be like last time.” you rise and stretch a little and wince when your back pops. you miss your bed.

a cheeky grin spreads across your face on its own accord when estinien visibly grimaces from beneath his visor. he crosses his arms and you only barely restrain yourself from mirroring the action. you already poked a nerve, no need to add insult.

“i should think not. getting my wits beat back into me by the _warrior of light_ once twas enough for a lifetime.” the way he crudely emphasizes your informal title makes you huff out a laugh and shake your head.

you forgot how much more fun he was when taken down a peg or three, and the thought of being able to go toe to toe with your azure counterpart while no sort of _evil aura_ or _possession_ was taking place makes you giddy. gods know you need the exercise, and you refused to pass up the chance to jump around recklessly in some gigantic trees, where no one was around to yell at you for it. the temptation was _irresistible_ and you hated estinien a little for ignoring things like laws and common courtesy to perch wherever he wanted.

you snag your lance from its spot poorly balanced against a tree. “good thing it’s only for fun this time. come on, fight me.”

you can’t see his eyes but you can _feel_ the incredulous look he gives you. you stare back at drachen mail plating and raise your eyebrows. neither of you say anything and some kind of animal shrieks in the distance. probably was attacked by a dragon, given how far you had traveled from tailfeather.

“estinien,” you start, sharply twirling your lance around with a satisfying whistle of the blade. “we’re taking a journey on foot through foreign lands occupied entirely by your enemies that we _aren’t_ going to fight. we’re going on a _peace mission_ and will likely be subject to _much_ diplomatic talk i would not dare allow anyone but _alphinaud_ take a crack at. you’re going to pick up your spear and we’re going to mock battle, and we are going to let off some steam before i have to continue to listen to you and ysayle gripe at each other for another damned _century_.”

when you stare at him this time there is no jest, no playfulness. the distant roar of what is clearly a dragon after a successful hunt rattles in your bones.

he grunts in what’s probably pained acknowledgment, and reaches for his weapon.


	11. untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4.56 spoilers

it takes aymeric virtually no time at all to notice the wistful, borderline pained look estinien expresses through the tightness of his jaw, the furrow in his brow. in the midst of open warfare, aymeric has no time for pleasantries, no time for questions, demands in regards to his sudden appearance.

estinien gingerly passes the warrior’s unconscious (still alive, but so hurt, fury take him right there) form off to the other, while aymeric briefly searches his gaze for explanations he may already know. he wouldn’t press.

estinien doesn’t tarry for long and turns away to leave. aymeric feels no surprise at his friend’s rapid departure, knowing estinien’s dislike for emotional goodbyes and formalities, but the cold weight in his chest persists regardless. the dragoon faces entirely away, unreadable.

aymeric spares him a final once over, searching through the tenseness of his posture, before turning his full attention to the warrior of light. they are bloodied, beaten, but by all accounts not broken. estinien may have saved their life, from what aymeric had heard in the panicked shouts from frontline fighters and scouts of the alliance. he took zenos on himself, fury forfend, to get their warrior to safety after they had inexplicably fallen. they would live due to his intervention.

but only barely. 

aymeric grimaces as he delicately turns the warrior’s head to the side to examine a wound tracing their temple. blood sticks to their face, their clothes, his hands. they would need urgent medical care and immediate leave of the battlefield, and aymeric would see to it himself.

the warrior would have wanted estinien to stay, he knows, but he has not the heart to ask his dear friend for that favor in their stead. there were only so many broken bodies one could pull from wreckage, from the brink of death, before they began to overlap behind eyelids. 

the ripe smell of blood and scorched ground was likely too much for estinien to begin with, but added alongside the desperation in his stride and the dead weight of someone precious in his arms… 

aymeric is not cruel enough to ask him to stay.


	12. aibou

“i love you,” you tell estinien.

“i am aware,” he answers in exactly the same bemused, next to flat sort of voice as usual while pointedly not looking at you.

you stare at him, however. you stare as much as you’d like and then some more. he definitely knows you’re doing this and takes it in stride, for all you’d like for him to give you a satisfying reaction. estinien has been aware of your games from the start, and as such been the perfect foil to your various jesting.

“and i do. i love you a lot, and even more now that you’ve embraced basic hygiene.”

“ah, to be wooed by such poetry coming from the esteemed warrior of light.”

you cackle sharply in both humor and surprise, and as a result are far too preoccupied in your fit to notice the small tug of his lips into a smirk. you missed this. you missed him.

“i’m glad we’ve entirely skipped the part of courting where we confess our hearts, out in the scenic Steppe and middle of nowhere.”

you slink towards him not unlike a coeurl about to pounce, and he does look at you then, seeming expectant and very nearly begging a question with the raise of his brows.

“shall we retire to my quarters or yours?” you ask, and estinien immediately stands up straight and heads off, walking directly away from you.

“please, estinien, i only joke!” you bark out in laughter, “i would not betray our good ser aymeric in such a way!”

he walks faster, leaving you to very nearly run to catch up. your laughter rings across the plains.


	13. untitled II: the return

“you did not tell me you were acquainted with the warrior of light.”

estinien doesn’t reply, doesn’t act as though he heard. aymeric knows better.

“i’m well aware of the state of the knights dragoon at their respective positions, but it may have been more… personally assuring, to know the whereabouts of our own azure dragoon, all things considered, seeing as there are now _two_ of you.”

“there’s naught to say on the matter,” estinien mutters, the gruffness in his voice doing well to hide his embarrassment that aymeric can only catch due to his familiarity with the man. 

he quirks his eyebrows, silently prompting his friend to continue with a patient wave of his hand. estinien fidgets and shrugs his shoulders in a stiff roll.

“was folly to my own lust for revenge, and they promptly laid me flat on my arse. now, i am here.”

aymeric hums thoughtfully. “had the sense beaten into you at last, i see. they will be a strong ally to have on our side, to be able to humble you so. i may have to give them my thanks.”

estinien growls indignantly and spins around, glaring at the lord commander through his visor. aymeric stares back, wholly unfazed. the silence stretches alongside the crackling of a nearby hearth.

aymeric fails to withhold a chuckle when estinien ducks his head in defeat and heads for the door, making a brisk escape.


	14. jobs

"tried archery, actually. did not end up working out." you cast a solemn look over to the bow slung across one of the dragonhead resident's back, as though you mourned for what could have been.

haurchefant manages to continue writing without so much as a pause while also glancing up at you. you've been around enough to recognize when he's writing identical statements to multiple houses or people or what have you, and you feel genuine pity for him and also his wrist.

"oh? taking up something besides magic?" he asks in casual interest. you nod sagely and think back to your early days stumbling around gridania, hardly more than a sprout in the forest.

"i am adept at conjury but i've always been fascinated by bards! i was hoping to learn to use a bow and perhaps pick up a skill that isn't related to elementals or healing magic." you make sure to leave out the part about how you grew weary enough of your offensive spells to try to be more creative with your earth magic, all to achieve different sounds of clapping and smashing rocks against your selection of targets. you know for a fact you were not the only one to do so, but that particular thought makes you somewhat sad.

haurchefant all but slaps the finished letter down to the side (you internally beg for everyone in coerthas to stop making this man write things) and rests his elbows on the empty space afforded, interlacing his fingers. he smiles conspiratorially at you from where he rests his head on his hands.

"and the bow did not agree. i must say it's quite difficult to imagine you struggling with any form of weaponry, especially since you've such a knack for a... remarkable variety of techniques." he grins then, full of mischief, his eyes crinkling at the corners. you can feel it coming and you do nothing to stop it: "i knew not what to think when i watched you tumble into the snow from the aetheryte, but you were so quick to jump to your feet, twas little wonder how fine a dragoon you've become."

"someone teleported in with their chocobo and they startled me!" you protest in a restrained shout as to not attract any more onlookers than normal. haurchefant openly chuckles when you cover your face in embarrassment, but you take solace in knowing he only teases, and you could and would flatten him within seconds with rocks. you've been practicing a _great deal._

"ah, but do not fret, dear friend," he continues. you peek out between your fingers with suspicion. "perhaps archery may not have suited you, but you boast a fine assortment of skills as you are! ... incredible reflexes not withstanding."

you lob a paper weight at him. it strikes his chest with precision, bounces against the chainmail, and falls into his lap. he winks at you.


	15. wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gun

she has that look in her eyes again. you don’t particularly enjoy the fact that you’re able to recognize it, and you’re _fairly_ certain your own expression mirrors thus. the longer you meet her gaze, through the blizzard howling around you and ricocheting past your mutual hiding place, the wider the mischievous grin exposing her teeth grows.

“awful weather out here,” the warrior says faux-casual, booming over the storm. “not a great day to be out adventuring, if i’m honest.” as if she didn’t intentionally bring the two of you out far north of falcon’s nest for this express purpose _knowing_ –

“we aren’t adventuring,” you start while warily eyeing the way your friend fiddles with her tools. “we are running an important errand for ser aymeric and the temple knights.” 

her eyes sparkle and something in her grip clicks rapidly, starting up a dim glow. you feel a heavy dread well up in your chest, not enough to instill fear, but definitely enough to remind you of the nasty little tricks alisaie would play on you back during your studies. your sister was an unpredictable terror for all your lives and you missed her, and even all the trouble she caused, immensely.

nevertheless, you did not fear the warrior, but you knew her wonts to a peculiar brand of chaos all her own.

she had been spending a great deal of time at the ishgardian manufactory, but you never seemed to catch her actually at work or in practice at the location in question. the chief and his staff were prone to spontaneous flights just as she was. birds of a feather, if you were so bold as to make that clever metaphor.

“this is true,” she agrees, rising to her feet and peeking out from around the edge of the bluff you sought shelter beside. 

that is absolutely a firearm she is holding currently, you determine, your eyebrows rising. her finger taps at the trigger and that earlier feeling of _gods no alisaie what have you done this time_ flares back to life. you’ve never seen this sort of weaponry in action before, and hadn’t even seen them up close, in general, given your pursuit of the arcane.

“if it’s all the same,” you attempt to derail, also standing straight with your tome hugged tightly to your side. you hadn’t called a carbuncle out in an attempt to stay better out of sight from any sky borne creature looking for easy pickings, but with the weather as it had become… you doubt it would really matter anymore. “i would rather be quick about any damage we’re to inflict on the area. our enemies will be angry enough with their supply route disabled, and i’d rather not linger to find out what these heretics would make of the warrior of light and her company.”

her smile falls and she looks deathly serious very suddenly, and a different kind of panic seizes your chest in a painful snarl. her sight is locked on something in the distance, but try as you might you cannot see exactly what. only… winter.

no, is that… a _light_?

“ah, but that’s just it, my dear alphinaud,” she says in a low voice, mounting her firearm against the stone at eye height in one smooth motion, her hands perfectly still. “i am not a warrior.”

your mouth falls open wordlessly, and you’re not quite pulled clean from your fear, but you’re also not standing paralyzed by it. then, there’s a shrill, ringing noise coming out from the direction the warrior is watching. it’s the light. it’s _beeping.  
_

she has the audacity to laugh then, when realization slams into you all at once and you duck for cover on pure instinct and adrenaline. her finger closes on the trigger and you only barely manage to hear her proclamation a fraction of a second before she fires.

“i am a _machinist_.”

the planted explosives detonate and you brace your head in your hands while your terror of a friend and renowned savior cackles loudly at the nearby avalanche she’s caused.


	16. dreadwyrm trance

“what is that?” alphinaud asks in alarm, upon witnessing your lightning flash of drawn, primal aether for the first time in combat. 

they spiral up around you, the coils of bahamut’s faded essence, more oppressive and suffocating than you had previously experienced. you didn’t think you’d be able to pull off the trance properly while on the first, and you aren’t sure if this successful pseudo-summon is as much comforting as is it worrying. there should not have been an elder primal of bahamut’s like upon this star.

moreover, you’ve never attempted this brand of magic around the twins before, and you weren’t prepared to try to explain your meditations at carteneau to them. alisaie would surely be… cross, to put it painfully mildly.

“i learned some new tricks while searching for a way to reach you,” you say to him in a low voice as you wrestle the violent lashings of aether back into your control. alphinaud’s expression is more than a little upset. bahamut’s growl rattles at the base of your throat and you taste copper in your teeth.


	17. do-over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time travel au? time travel au.

“tell them how you feel.”

to his credit, the lord haurchefant only startles a little and spins around to face you in what’s most likely to be record time. you’re unsure if he heard you, and intend to press, but generously allow him a moment to recover from what he probably thought was an attempt on his person.

“i would have thought by now i’d adjust to your sudden appearances, but evidently not,” he says in a small laugh.

you offer a shrug and stand up straighter from your sad little slouch, cozily tucked out of the way from the chilling wind, to the side of the camp dragonhead office. you had no intention of moving from this downright strategic position to be generously blasted in the face by subzero gales.

“it’s a talent. speaking of, i never did acquire the ability to mind read, so it would be better for everyone for you to tell them what you feel. it’s somewhat embarrassing for me personally, watching the two of you dance around one another. neither of you really have the time to let things go without being said.” 

haurchefant’s face falls, and you watch him grimace at you in that way you _hate_. the expression he bears for when he’s seeing his warrior in you, and thinking of the fact that you’re not _them_ , but you used to be. how you could have been them were the fates kinder.

“save that look for someone who cares for it,” you tell him a little too sharply, pretending you aren’t minutely heartsore, even after all this time. “you have the chance and i suggest you take it now, before circumstance decides they should be anywhere else. have you not been waiting long enough?”

the lord in question mutters something you don’t quite catch, looking away and back in the direction where the warrior of light (a different, younger, _better_ you) had only just vacated with the company of a plucky band of machinists.

“i’ve been rather transparent, i see,” he states with a self-depreciative smile and furrow in his brow, now watching nothing in particular besides the falling snow. “what with recent events, the end of the war, political upheaval… there’s scarcely been time to _breathe_ , let alone pursue matters far more personal.” he isn’t arguing your point, only speaking his thoughts, and you listen and idly wonder how little of haurchefant you had actually gotten to know, yourself. how rarely the two of you talked, compared to now, and this.

“haurchefant,” you speak in a tone of voice you reserved for those quiet moments where you didn’t need to be a hero, or an idol, or a weapon. sitting in private with your loved ones in companionable silence, only the pleasant and ultimately meaningless chatter breaking the quiet. a nearby hearth warming your bones and a mug of hot tea held snugly in your hands. a comfort too soft, too brittle, that you were very rarely ever afforded.

he returns his attention to you with a look of mild surprise, and for a second you think he might start to pity you again. talk to you in that tentative, open-hearted way he tried initially with your arrival, before he could understand what separated _you_ from _them_. when he was infuriatingly gentle towards you like you were precious, broken glass, though in truth you didn’t so much as relate to its fragility as much as the danger it possesses while being handled. 

but… he doesn’t say a word. haurchefant merely looks at you in a way you don’t remember ever seeing, his vulnerability open in both his posture and the tightness of his jaw. bravado momentarily set aside and heart on display, you realize, the pain in your chest twisting with heat. he’s unsure how to respond to you, but you’ve had plenty of time to come up with the words.

“there is… a great deal i can say about myself. about what i experienced.” your voice is hushed, like sharing secrets, between you and him and the wind. you may never have the courage to say them again. “but this, here? if i were to… if i were to be honest– about you, about me, and about– well, everything i’ve been through in this godssforsaken place, thousand-year war notwithstanding…” you breathe deep and pretend the cold is soothing the embers of a sour fire smouldering within your chest, avoiding eye contact with the man mere fulms in front of you. 

“above all else, i would tell you how glad i am to have met you. how grateful i am to have known you, and how much i wish i could have had the chance to get to know you better. how, even now in this wildly different time i find myself in, you continue to be the hand at my back bracing me against whatever hardships i must continue to face.” you take a step forward towards him, and poke him hard in the chest. “and that’s why you need to go to them and _talk_. i assure you, despite their absurdly calm disposition, they have quite a lot to say, and just as much if not _more_ that they’d like to say to _you_.”

haurchefant is stunned for a solid breath while you mercilessly jab his chainmail. then, he blinks rapidly, staring dumbly at you, then glances downward, then back up at you again. he huffs out a wet, humorless laugh and raises a hand to shakily run through his pale hair. you step back to your hiding place and cross your arms tight to your chest, politely giving him a meager amount of space while you absentmindedly ponder the mess of the footprints in the snow.

he stands there like this in your audience for an awkward, heavy stretch of time, and very clearly struggles to regain his composure all the while. when he does, however, haurchefant clears his throat somewhat dramatically, cants his head to the side, and breathes out a long and shaky sigh. the winter storm has subsided for the most part, save for a light snowfall, by the time he’s collected himself. your gaze is drawn back to meet his, then, and there’s warmth in his eyes that coaxes the blaze in your heart to a gentle roar. a perfectly maintained hearth.

“indeed. i would like to hear them.” he tells you simply, and though his cheeks are wet with tears, his smile is as bright as the sun. you return it in earnest.


	18. cyr feel think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hw hildibrand takes no prisoners

“this might actually be the worst day of my life,” cyr babbles next to you with a high-pitched, grief-stricken tone of voice you only sort of listen to. “i’m going to be put in chains, sent to the gallows, branded for life! discarded from the holy see and halone’s grace–!”

he seems to be having a crisis, you note while thoroughly chewing your snack of slightly stale knight bread. he stopped talking fairly quickly and has dissolved into a stream of incoherent, squeaky laughs you doubt are meant in good humor. poor guy.

“you know, i really think you’re overreacting. nobody’s going to have your head. was count edmont– or, i guess, _ser_ edmont, not perfectly amiable with the circumstances?” the silent agreement you shared with your pseudo-adoptive-father-figure to watch over hildibrand remained with you, and despite your status as the most powerful individual and god slayer and etc etc of eorzea, you honestly doubted the manderville man needed your protection. he cannot be stopped and you’re fairly certain he’s actually impervious to any kind of lasting injury or death. he went to dalamud.

cyr does manage to take an uneasy breath, soothed by the point you’ve made, and nods a little too readily in response in his outstanding panic. you uncork your flask and drain it and do your best not to choke on soggy bread.

“yes! yes, well… though the good count’s… _encouragement_ of these ridiculous activities still astounds me, he is a good man of one of the high houses. that is something, at any rate, to prevent my impending execution.”

“you’re not getting _godsdamned executed_ you dramatic fool,” you snap at him in between coughs. nobody was allowed to die. you were done with that. “there is literally _nothing_ you could do that would cause you to be tossed into prison. don’t forget i’m here, too.”

he glares over at you in a very indignant way you’d be tempted to slap off if your hands weren’t full. _you, really?_ you can practically hear him sneer, like all those other ishgardians had before you saved their collective asses. you hope he’s better than that.

“while i appreciate your presence as the only voice of reason in this entire debacle, i really don’t think one adventurer, friend of the fortemps besides, is going to prevent the holy see from bodily tossing me down witchdrop.” he makes a pained expression and when realization finally hits you, you almost want to weep.

he doesn’t know who you are. how does he _not_ know who you are? you had found it refreshing at first, to be treated like a regular person again, but now this was downright frustrating and you wanted to scream at cyr about all those times you felled gods. and then felled them again. you felled so many things in the span of the last year you’ve lost count on whose god was whose.

“cyr, i killed nidhogg. i’m not afraid of a bunch of stuck-up nobles in gaudy robes.” you tear off an entirely too large chunk of bread, having not at all learned your lesson. cyr gapes at you.

“i’m… i’m sorry? you did what?” he asks, and you shoot him a deadpan stare.

“nidhogg? the wyrm responsible for a thousand year war between dravanians and ishgard? killed by the warrior of light and azure dragoon and warrior of light a second time? that’s me.” you talk with your mouth full and gesture to yourself with your thumb.

cyr continues to stare at you, uncomprehendingly, and you fear you may have succeeded in finally breaking the poor fellow. you finish your food at last, wipe your hand on your pant leg, and pat him consolingly on the shoulder.

“that’s– the ward of house fortemps. the warrior of light the _savior of ishgard_ – oh my _gods_ –!” he very nearly shrieks, folding in on himself a little before snapping right back up, eyes blazing. “i’m in the company of the warrior of light who is assisting an actual lunatic to hunt down a mammet stolen by a group of elderly knights.”

“just a day in the life,” you assure him pleasantly. he does actually scream this time.


	19. memento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SHADOWBRINGERS HYPE

they kiss him fiercely and deeply as they’ve never done before, their hands framing his face, drawing him closer, sliding back to curl in his hair. at first he makes a confused, muffled noise, but that soon trails off into silence when he decides to meet their efforts halfway.

just as soon as they’ve delved in, they pull themselves from him and gasp for breath. his eyes are wide and follow them when they rapidly blink away tears and glance briefly overhead. then, after several pounding heartbeats, they return their full attention to him with a strange, objective focus, and smile in a way that doesn’t reach their eyes.

“for luck,” they tell estinien, fondly patting his cheek before stepping bodily back and away from his hesitant embrace. “something to remember me by.”

_i don’t know where i’ll end up or what i’ll become when i reach there but_

“… you speak as though this is goodbye,” estinien says with a rough voice to their back. “be victorious, and return to us.”

“of course i will,” they lie cheerfully, refusing to face him. “i’m the warrior of light.”

_but if and when i return home_

_i don’t know if it will be me anymore_


	20. regulate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of major injuries, amputation

“now while i applaud your decision to come to me over garlond, i must say i’m surprised you’d consult _me_ on a matter so personal to begin with. you two are _sickeningly_ buddy-buddy, after all.”

nero theatrically gestures with his hands while he talks, even with his back facing you. you hardly pay him any mind as he sifts through his hard drafts, banishing some papers outright by flinging them onto the floor. one flutters to a depressing end in a small oil leak.

“that’s why i came to you,” you reply after a lengthy pause, “he’s my friend and we’ve been through a lot. i need someone who won’t be subjective, and won’t pull their punches at my request.” your entire right side still aches. traumatic injuries take longest to heal, you were told time and time again and already knew plenty. the helplessness is worse than the pain, you think.

nero looks at you over his shoulder, quirking a brow. after a second he seems satisfied with what he’s found, making his way back over to you in long strides. he’s in his environment and is comfortable, confident. unconsciously, you hone in on the cracks and find the unevenness of his footing and the way he swallows a little too hard when you meet his gaze.

“why do i get the feeling this isn’t about a simple prosthetic?” nero asks, making a face in glaring displeasure as you shrug off your coat, revealing your injury to public scrutiny. “you know i don’t dabble with _organic material_.” the way he says it like a curse makes you smile ruefully.

“good thing i don’t want you to perform surgery on me, then. what i want is purely magitek, and something i think you’d be perfect for.”

he recoils with disgust when you motion the remainder of your arm, severed just below the shoulder, in his direction. you would have liked to capture that moment and frame it, if only for novelty.

“you’re right about me not looking for just a prosthetic. while that’s the starting point, you and i both know nothing less than the most dangerous quality material will be capable of handling my typical paces. i can get an arm anywhere, but i need… an extension of myself.” you hope your explanation is sufficient, and the way nero’s expression brightens with interest assures you that it is. he leans forward a little to examine your battered, heavily scarred side in better detail as you talk.

“my aether, my anima, is on levels not possible for mortals. my blessing gives me a keen advantage over my opponents and protects me in case of an emergency.” you tilt your head back and stare at the piping running along the ceiling. “my power grows exponentially over time and by some miracle my body is able to keep up. but then…” you trail off, your eyes slipping shut. “with all that, i’ve still surpassed mortal boundaries. what i am, what sort of being i’ve become, can only be seen through the eyes of those with great power, more often than not of primals, and i can’t say i’m overly fond of their commentary.”

“shall i guess what comes next?” nero pipes up sharply, standing up straight and crossing his arms. “the warrior of light is worried they’re _too_ strong. that they’ve become something _unnatural and warped_ , holding the amount of power they do. that they’ll continue to grow until–”

“one more word and i’m going to cid for the most boring limb ironworks is capable of producing.”

nero staggers back, slapping his hand to his chest in an overly dramatic display of offense.

“you wound me! throwing all your insecurities and weaknesses at my feet like this only to yank the proverbial rug out from beneath me. what cruelty you possess, good warrior.”

you stare at him. nero shakes his head and shrugs.

“but, never let it be said that nero tol scaeva would decline such a high-risk, quite frankly _fascinating_ operation presented on such a fine plater. you want a biological aether regulator, and one powerful enough to withstand the godly quantities of aether you possess and filter it in survivable doses.” he steps slowly from side to side as he talks, his shoulders back and head held in a practiced way that reminds you of in-school lectures. “in theory, such a thing would be simple as far as machinery goes, but flesh and blood _does_ have its tendencies to be unpredictable. it would require a deeper system spanning throughout your body, rather than solely isolated to your missing limb. this hypothetical system could work, assuming every possible variable is handled with utmost care, but it would undoubtedly cause you _extreme_ pain and duress. … and that’s why you came to me, and not garlond.”

he flashes his stupid, crooked grin at you. you breathe out steadily, wordlessly relieved as your thoughts are written out so effortlessly.

“can you do it?” you ask him quietly, exhaustion bearing its full weight down on your shoulders. you didn’t want to think about this anymore. about your fears of yourself, the consequences of this path you’ve walked, about the future you’re tumbling into. 

cid was going to be incredibly upset with you and even _more_ upset with nero, but he would have to figure that out on his own.

nero barks out a laugh. “don’t insult me with such benign questions. you should focus any and all of your current efforts on finding someone who can keep you alive during the installation.”


	21. in blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for talk of major injury and amputation
> 
> prequel to "regulate"

_ah_ , she thinks with startling clarity even as she collapses to the grass like a string-less puppet. _this is less than ideal._

it’s there and then it isn’t, which is a problem, since she sort of needs that arm to do stuff. she’s probably making a great mess of the place and can tell because of all the screaming, and also because of the way garuda cackles with unrestrained glee at her injury. bitch.

their monk is carrying her and tearing through the ixali grounds at a dead sprint. she does love this roe woman dearly, her and all her muscles and uncanny skill at punching things. dark red doesn’t suit her. stands out too much on her clothes and complexion.

 _sorry haurchefant, i messed up._ the thought is reflex by this point, but a specific kind of dread sets in when she realizes the closest infirmary is at camp dragonhead. her little brother was probably going to pass out at the sight of her. oh gods, edmont was going to have a _fit_. oh _fuck_ aymeric was surely going to be there _his godsdamned self_ within the bell, panicking in that way he does without actually making a scene.

there isn’t much pondering of her situation to be had after, physical trauma and blood loss too great to remain conscious despite hydaelyn’s best efforts. she remembers more yelling and being passed around and too much warmth, and then total stillness and ringing silence.


	22. songs of dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slices of life of our favorite winter hellscape with no discernible thread of plot

when the champion sings, do not disturb her. 

this is an unspoken rule in ishgard that nobles and commoners alike abide by, though not without personal bouts of curiosity giving them cause to weigh treading across that line.

such a sound was her first performance that activity across the city stuttered, residents looking confusedly out their windows and knights attempting to assuage children bombarding them with questions. perhaps there would have been less grand bewilderment had she not chosen the religious center of ishgard as her stage.

but it’s not only singing, and the knights dragoon are naturally the first to understand. the champion’s dragonsong is unique to her, as are theirs, and she uses it with purpose just as any of the dragons do. the nobles are reassured by the dragoons that there is no vengeful ghost of halone atop the vault, biding her time before smiting them where they stood. only a single, very famous individual, sharing with them a story without words if only because she wishes to. 

(ser alaimbert in particular is overjoyed to recognize the woman’s voice after some odd years, and half the barracks lunge to slap their hands over his mouth before he’s able to make an additional comment on the matter.)

the masses don’t comprehend dragonsong as they do, but all the same they are drawn in by it. she never sings the same chorus twice, and spins the sounds of endless struggles and blinding hope into the verses she gives unto the air. the bittersweet melody resonates with ishgard’s center, and there is something definitively holy regarding an outsider turned savior offering the contents of her heart to the masses without question. some may silently pray to halone, considering the champion as an extension of her grace, but others will look to her and see an impossible goddess in her own right, for all her rejection of the church and modesty of her accomplishments.

(artoirel sees her only once, and for not more than the quickest of glimpses as he exits the cathedral. he is overcome with nostalgia and melancholy at the clarity of her voice, and poses rightful suspicion that her song has greater meaning to a select few than most would ever be able to recognize. was that not the entire methodology of dragonsong, to pass down stories and information within their brood?

he hears her grief on the wind, her righteous love and fury, and it’s all so intimately familiar that artoirel forces himself to look away before he can do something he regrets. he wonders how long it has been since he made a genuine attempt to talk to his adoptive sister in person.)

(“should be a bard, that one,” hilda says to joye in between the ricochet of bullets. “sure got the voice fer it.”

“sings like she shoots!” joye appraises and flicks her rifle outwards while her aether sinks into the cartridges, narrating the action with a satisfying series of clicks. “givin’ no quarter, no mercy. caught me lord weepin’ like a babe the other day– don’ tell ‘im i told ya.”

hilda laughs and successfully decimates their target dummy with a well-placed hot shot to its pretend head, causing bits of ice to explode and scatter about like hail. she wouldn’t mind hearing a battle dirge or two from the champion, but this was all well and good enough, really.)

(in a quiet, fairly secluded cabin, the warrior presents a basket of fruits to a young lord. he stammers out thanks as he takes in the variety, some of the more colorful delicacies he isn’t sure are from eorzea all together, being wholly unrecognizable. she certainly has her ways of surprising him, including taking the time out of her ungodly busy schedule to pay him a private visit, when his position at dragonhead was so far out of her way.

“it’s a shame my duty keeps me out there, at times.” francel muses, playing it safe and plucking an apple bearing the vibrant colors of dawn from the basket. “i would love to be able to listen to these songs of yours, if only the once.”

she seems perfectly pleased at the sentiment and offers him a warm smile, resting her head in a pillow of her folded arms upon his desk. francel sees exhaustion bordering her posture, but politely says none of it, knowing his friend is doing as well as she can to tend to her health. it had been so difficult for the both of them, for so long.

“i have some stories i could share instead, if you’ve the time. nothing spectacular, mind you.”

“you do yourself too little credit, my friend. i would love to hear them.” francel takes a meager bite of the apple and finds it to be perfectly sweet, the flavor nearly foreign to him considering the rarity of palatable fruits available in the coerthan markets. the results of the botanists’ crossbreeding attempts for sustainable crops in their frigid climate did not often yield such splendor.

“alright, but cut me some slack with this. i’m no good at words.” she laughs and sits up straighter, clearing her throat with dramatic flourish. francel waves his hand at her in a gesture granting her permission to continue, and she sticks her tongue out at him.)


	23. stage four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for self-harm

she passes on estinien’s offer for the alcohol, giving him all the incentive he needs to take generous swigs straight from the bottle himself while she stares down at her pitifully empty cup.

bringing it closer to her, the sound of glass sliding across wood nearly deafening in the otherwise dead silence, she catches sight of her reflection. a distorted visage warped around the clear surface, staring back at her with hollowed eyes the vibrant color of her favorite flowers and death.

her fingers tense and the glass shatters messily in the strength of her grasp, its crumbling, jagged edges sinking deep into her palm and drawing blood. she closes her fist around the mess and exhales through the blistering sting.

“it never gets any easier.” she hears estinien mutter from her side, alongside the sound of the bottle returning to its place on the table. she doesn’t see the way he looks to her with gentle eyes, herself far too focused on the pain spiking up her arm and the smell of her own blood as it drips between her fingers.

“i cannot tell you how to grieve, nor should i.” he reaches over and gently unrolls her trembling fist. holding her hand open with pale, heavily scarred fingers, he delicately begins to remove the shards of glass piece by piece and sets them aside in a red-tinged pile. “but i would not allow you to seek the ere same self-destruction as i once had. if the fates should not be kind to you in these endeavors, allow me then to share of this burden that weighs so heavily upon your shoulders. as a fellow azure dragoon, and as a friend.”

she doesn’t cry, despite the heat building in her eyes. only swallows the lump in her throat and summons faint amounts of healing magic into her wounded, shaking hand, while estinien carefully dabs away the blood with a stained cloth.


End file.
